The Babbling Buddha

The Babbling Buddha built Dorje Ling. Kenny is a failed monk and a drunken saint, now perched unsteadily on the wagon. An infuriating red-haired, red-skinned whirlwind. Dorje Ling is his heart, offered up as a gift of pure love.

Dorje Ling is a wabi-sabi dharma ranch and a tumbledown hostel, a waystation for dharma bums and wanderers. Nail-heads pop out of the greying untreated planks. All of the doors either won’t close or won’t stay open, all of them creak and bang in the wind. Hammer-heads fly off handles, the toaster burns, the shower sputters and stops. Mattresses molder and sag, mugs are chipped, power tools and new cedar planking lie rusting and buckling in the rain. Everything rising and rotting as one, a magnificent study in impermanence.

And oh my god, my god, it is beautiful. Mind-melting now as the mountains turn violet, setting sun glinting off the glaciers of Desolation Sound. The mama gaia cedar sways in the wind, the chimes sing, and tiny green frogs hide in the cracks in the walls. I want to stroke every weathered board, damn the splinters under my fingernails, they are worth it every one.